Pop Culture Vultures and Lovebirds

Can an average-looking girl land a gorgeous guy?  That's the age-old question posed in Curtis Sittenfeld's Romantic Comedy.  The "normie" heroine is Sally Milz, an Emmy-winning writer for The Night Owls, a sketch comedy so much like Saturday Night Live I wondered if Sittenfeld had once worked there.  This fascinating window into the workings of SNL is sure to delight any fan.  But it's the story-within-the-story of Sally herself that resonates.  Brilliant but socially awkward, she's sick of seeing her schlubby male coworkers snag the beautiful women who host the show.  She even goes so far as to write a sketch about it.  Then Top 40 It Boy Noah Brewster gets the gig.  He's not only hot but surprisingly nice, and he and Sally forge an unlikely but very real friendship.  That is, until she sabotages it.

Sharp and witty and just plain fun, Romantic Comedy spans the space of three years, including the pandemic, to find out, once and for all, if men really like -- no, love -- smart women.  Through the admittedly distorted lens of Sally's insecurities, Sittenfeld skewers romcoms even as she applauds what makes them great.  

And that's what makes Romantic Comedy great, too -- its willingness to laugh at itself.    

Untamed Twin Flames: A Love Story

Everyone remembers where they were on September 11.  I was a sophomore in college trying to decide what to wear to my first Science, Ethics, and Technology class (sorry not sorry if I've said this before in my many years of shameless self promotion).  In case you're wondering, I went with a hot pink floral cami and midi skirt from Fashion Bug, which was where I worked every summer.  Also, it turns out that I was in the wrong class, although the prof let me stay.  But that's my (perhaps inappropriately lighthearted) anecdote.  In Jill Santopolo's The Light We Lost, which was my mom's latest book club pick, things are much more complicated.

When Columbia seniors Lucy Carter and Gabe Samson sit down for their first Shakespeare seminar, they don't know each other or what that day will bring.  Hours later they watch the Twin Towers tumble.  Their bond is instant but their timing is wrong, a theme that defines their next decade.  Both grow to be storytellers, Lucy as a children's television producer and Gabe as a photojournalist.  Yet although they're different in irreconcilable ways, they share a passion for making a difference.

Santopolo writes The Light We Lost as Lucy's letter to Gabe, making it achingly personal even as it reveals the universal nature of love, loss, and fate.  Which is my senior seminar way of saying that it tears out your heart.  

I loved it.

Thriller Chiller: Don't Take That Tone With Me

Remember that episode of Friends when Joey's reading Little Women and Beth gets sick and Joey gets scared and has to put the book in the freezer?  Well, that's what I had to do with Lucy Foley's The Guest List.  Not that I really wedged it between a DiGiorno and a mess hall-sized bag of broccoli.  But I did stop reading it a third of the way in, much to the consternation of my book club besties.  (Hi, Mom!  Hi, Sis!)  Why?  Because its tone made me nervous.  

Now, I've read more than my share of murder mysteries.  But they're always either dignified and distant, like Agatha Christie, or hilarious and homespun, like all those cozies, that I barely notice anyone's bit the big one.  In other words, their tone is lighthearted.  You know.  Sunny.  Funny.  And sometimes accompanied by recipes.  And that little light is all that I need to go on to find out whodunit.  Yet a story that's shadowed through and through, with characters as damaged as their murky dismal surroundings (even my "serious" descriptions are "silly," Rainbow Brite's Murky Dismal being as cartoonish a villain as they come), plunges me into an abyss of black-out blinds.  And for a spirited sunseeker such as myself, that's a bad place to be.  

That said, my mom and sister weren't really surprised that I dropped Ms. Foley like a bad habit.  They know I don't do well with darkness and were very understanding.  Being in a book club is funny like that, even with -- especially with -- people you know really well.  The titles we choose say a lot about us and what we want and need from books.

And I know what I'll need when it's my turn to pick is something with a colorful cover. 

From Page to Stage (er, Screen): Run, Don't Crawl to the Cove

When it comes to books vs. movies, the book is (almost) always better.  But the film adaptation of Where the Crawdads Sing is a near doppelganger of Delia Owens' masterpiece.  I say this because when the music started to swell over the marsh, my personal waterworks sprung a leak.    

Daisy Edgar-Jones (Normal People) stars as Kya Clark, the little girl-turned woman who raises herself in the wilds of North Carolina.  Sensitive yet steely, she's exactly who I imagined, her refinement and reverence for nature defying the town's crude opinion of her.  The rest of the cast is spot on too, with Taylor John Smith as the earnest Tate Walker and Harris Dickinson as arrogant Chase Andrews.  

That said, the movie is less gritty and violent than the book.  And although this detracts from the horror that helped shape Kya's worldview, it highlights the parts of the story that are charming yet enshrouded in mystery.  In other words, it's Nicholas Sparks-meets-Agatha Christie -- in the most wonderful way.  To make for a trifecta of icons, Taylor Swift's "Carolina" accompanies the credits, translating the haunting feel of Owens' unforgettable pages.      

So if it's eerie enchantment you crave, then this is the flick for you.  And if not, then no need to grouse about it.  

There are plenty of other crawdads in the marsh.

Habitat for Calamity: The Heart is a Lonely Punter

Where the Crawdads Sing needs no introduction.  Everyone has been talking about this debut novel by enigmatic naturalist Delia Owens; even the cover proclaims it to be "the worldwide sensation."  So why, then, did I resist reading it, relenting only when my mother leant me her copy?  I'd see it in Target on my lunch break, sometimes even going so far as to turn it over, reading and rereading the back cover.  The reader in me didn't want to miss out, but the cynic in me dismissed it as a cross between Dateline and Swamp People.

So, when I opened it last week, my expectations were low.  But as soon as I met Kya Clark, the chip on my shoulder evaporated.  After years of abuse at the hands of Kya's father, Kya's mother leaves their North Carolina swamp shack and never comes back.  Unable to bear Pa's drunken violence, Kya's four brothers and sisters escape one by one, leaving her alone with Pa at the age of six.  But even Pa is away more often than not, leaving Kya to fend for herself.  Which, it turns out, she's astonishingly good at.  By watching the gulls, she learns to dig for mussels, then boats to the gas station to sell them so she can buy grits.  She has one pair of overalls and no shoes, but when she steps on an old nail, tetanus eludes her.  She avoids school until she's seven, when the authorities force her to go.  On her first day, she sits in the cafeteria with her chicken pot pie, the most delicious and nourishing food she's ever eaten.  By anyone's standards, she should finally feel safe.  But the other kids are unbearably cruel, laughing at her because she can't spell "dog" and calling her "Marsh Girl."  So she stuffs the food into her milk carton and returns to the only sanctuary she's ever known, the birds and the trees and the water.  The truant officer hunts her for weeks, but she always outsmarts him.  She never sets foot in school again.  Now, I grew up with two doting parents and am about as outdoorsy as an armchair.  Kya and I should have nothing in common.  Yet when I read this, I felt a near visceral pull, everything in me humming, I get it.  Because I too was a loner who didn't fit in and would've preferred home to school.

Kya's pa finally leaves when she's ten.  As the years pass, Kya becomes more entrenched in the marsh, collecting seashells and other specimens and cataloging each with an exquisite painting.  Jumpin', the Black owner of the gas station, and his wife Mabel give her clothes and food when they can.  When Kya's fourteen, a local boy teaches her how to read, and her capacity for creativity grows.  But for the most part, she remains on her own with nature.  Stirring and strange, Kya's is a story of the world's natural wonders -- but of its horrors, too. 

If you've read it or seen the movie, then you know that there's a murder.  And that, despite her extreme isolation, Kya becomes involved with two men.  The way Owens weaves these with Kya's kinship with nature took my breath away.  

And . . . that's where I'll stop.  So that if you want to read Where the Crawdads Sing, then you can be breathless too.  

Oliphant in the Room . . .

. . . is a pun I can't take credit for (or, for you grammar sticklers, a pun for which I can't take credit).  That's because Eleanor Oliphant said it.  Eleanor is like Susan Green on steroids.  She's particular.  She's an introvert.  She's extremely blunt and judgmental.  She's from the U.K. (albeit Scotland instead of England.)  And she tells us all about it in Gail Honeyman's award-winning Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine.  (Full disclosure: this too is a Reese's Book Club pick, and I heard about it on The Cactus's cover.)  But this is the thing (although, if you have a sense of irony, you've probably already figured it out).  Eleanor is not completely fine.  Not even close.  Because beneath her sometimes endearing, sometimes cringeworthy armor of social awkwardness is a world of pain and a deep, dark secret.  She's afraid to rock the boat of her life because the boat she used to be on was burning.  And it isn't until she meets Raymond, the also awkward but confident IT guy at work, that she begins to get better.

Now, I'm not going to say a whole lot about the plot of this book.  Because that would spoil it.  But I will say that Eleanor and Raymond forge a slow, strange friendship.  It defies convention and depends, in part, upon Raymond's patience and good humor.  But it's something that Eleanor desperately needs, even if she can't admit it.  For her, the loner life has become a fortress against growth.  It's a safe space that's starting to suffocate her, even as she clings to it.     

"Some people, weak people, fear solitude.  What they fail to understand is that there's something very liberating about it; once you realize that you don't need anyone, you can take care of yourself.  You can't protect other people, however hard you try."  (134)

Eleanor knows that she can't play the game, and that this is part of why she's alone.  Yet in letting Raymond into her life, she's forced to interact with other people.  And this makes her realize that she needs to bend, however slightly.

"I wasn't good at pretending, that was the thing.  . . . I could see no point in being anything other than truthful with the world.  I had, literally, nothing left to lose.  But, by careful observation from the sidelines, I'd worked out that social success is often built on pretending just a little." (198)

So, Eleanor opens herself up to new experiences.  And she stumbles and learns.  Yet she still holds fast to what makes her, well, her.  Which is a sign of strength and bravery, especially after all she's been through.

"Although it's good to try new things and to keep an open mind, it's also extremely important to stay true to who you really are.  I read that in a magazine at the hairdressers."  (174)

Masterful and moving, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine is about finding your best self without losing yourself.  I'm not going to lie; it's sometimes hard to read.  But it's also funny and sad and satisfying and all the best things that you (okay, I) want from a novel.

Moving on.

Here are some vintage brooches that I embellished.  The first one is hard to make out - just like our heroine -- but it's an elephant.  And the second one is, of course, a sailboat.  I think that they go well with this post, being old and tired and then shiny and new but still old in a good way.  Even if Eleanor is no champion of crafters, describing one of her colleagues as making hideous jewelry for hideous people.  Or something.

But I won't hold that against her.  I know it's not her fault.  And that she prefers doing crosswords.  

Calling All Cacti: Late Bloom Baby Boom, Drink it In

Cactus cardigan: Collectif X, Modcloth
Cacti blouse: Amazon
Floral surplice top: Flying Tomato, Marshalls

 Arid Elegance Necklaces

Fabulous Felt Yellow Cactus Barrette, Fabulous Felt Pink Cactus Barrette 

Susan Green is a cool customer. She wears only black and gray, she likes rules, she collects cacti, and she never lets anything get in her way -- or, to use Mindy Kaling's parlance, she's a very busy woman who never has time for fun.  So, she's a classic rom com heroine.  And Sarah Haywood's The Cactus, which is a selection of Reese Witherspoon's book club, is the story of how this chick gets, well, lit.  Metaphorically.  Although there is a fair bit of wine drinking.

Forty-five-year-old Susan informs us, in her no-frills, straightforward way, that her mother has just passed away and that she's facing an unplanned pregnancy.  The father is a like-minded, no-nonsense professional with whom she had an "arrangement."   So, a boyfriend without the hassle -- or romance. She also has a ne'er do well younger brother who seems intent on ruining her life by swindling her out of her inheritance.  But he also happens to have this friend . . .

Ah yes, the friend.  The male friend who's appealing and funny and kind despite being a borderline ne'er do well too.  In this instance, he's Rob, the professional gardener, and his oat sowing days are behind him.  Now he's ready to put down roots, becoming a constant if held-at-arms-length fixture in Susan's life.  I know what you're thinking: we've seen this before!  Susan's the prickly, tough-skinned succulent, and Rob is the loosey-goosey horticulturist with the patience to penetrate her guarded layers.  Which makes this book sound like a bodice ripper and/or a Hallmark mush fest, but it's neither.  For one thing, there is zero sex, not even a kiss.  And the tiny bit of emotion that eventually does eke out is hard-won and all the sweeter for it.  

The thing about Susan is, she's the opposite of America's sweetheart (and not just because she's British) and of what the world expects women to be.  Instead of being warm and selfless, she's self-contained and standoffish, like one of those HBO antiheroes that it's hard to like.  That said, her inner sanctum can be an uncomfortable place.  She's so rigid that she sometimes seems inhuman, and her lack of self awareness can be as annoying as it is gently funny.  Here are a couple of glimpses into her head:

"It could simply be, however, that I was aware from an early age that a close relationship with a boy or man -- or indeed anyone -- would undermine my freedom, dilute my individualism, take up precious time and cause the unnecessary expenditure of emotional energy.  Looked at logically like that, it's astonishing that any rational person would want to engage in intimate relationships." (195-196)

"As you're aware, I've always been the author of my own destiny.  We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman.  What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable." (205)

From Susan's point of view, she's protecting herself.  Why throw caution to the wind in an unstable world when you can craft your own custom, temperature-controlled solarium full of indestructible, botanical wonders?  Yet despite all this, or maybe because of it, I can't help but like her.  Especially when she shares some story from her past that's so sad you want to be that one kid she can turn to when she's alone on the playground.  And that's what keeps the reader -- and, I imagine Rob -- interested.  Speaking of which, this is what he has to say:

"He picked up each of the containers in turn, remarking that several of the plants were pot-bound and would soon cease to thrive if they weren't repotted.  And light, too, he said -- they would benefit from being in a position with more direct sunlight, at least six hours a day.  I must say, although I may have been impressed by his expertise in plant cultivation, I was more than a little disgruntled.  I've managed to nurture some very impressive specimens without anyone else's interference.  Admittedly, none of them has ever bloomed, but that's a detail." (217)

Rob is saying that Susan's doing a mostly fine job with her cacti -- but that they'd be better off with some changes.  Predictably, Susan bristles, going as far as to say so what if her plants have never bloomed?  But she knows, deep down, that Rob's right.  Because although green (and indeed Green) can symbolize a tough as nails cactus, it can also mean inexperience and vulnerability.  As accomplished as Susan is in the rest of her life, she's awkward when it comes to people.  Which is mostly fine; we don't all have to be social butterflies!  Still, in (tentatively) accepting Rob's friendship and, yes, in having a baby, she discovers that sometimes -- even for a cactus -- companionship can be nice.

The Cactus is a lovely story, a kind of middle-aged coming-of-age.  Also, it's refreshing to read about a suitor who's not, even once, the proverbial prick.

Cactus humor, you never let me d(r)own.